


The Blood on our Hands (Prompt #8)

by Sijglind



Series: Tumblr Prompt Fills [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Angst, Blink And You Miss It Animal Cruelty, Dark, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Jealousy, M/M, Minor Character Death, Possessive Dean Winchester, Serial Killer Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 19:07:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1358563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sijglind/pseuds/Sijglind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="dykeadellic.tumblr.com">dykeadellic</a>'s prompt: Okay, this is my thing. Can you do serial killer Dean, trying to track down his Sammy, who is kinda in denial about Dean wanting him. But Dean needs to see that Sammy's okay. And um sex? Please?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blood on our Hands (Prompt #8)

**Author's Note:**

> [Give me a prompt](http://incestuousfricklefrackle.tumblr.com/ask) on my [tumblr](http://incestuousfricklefrackle.tumblr.com).

Sam doesn’t know where he is. He’s lost track sometime after he crossed the border between South Dakota and Wyoming, but it doesn’t really matter. One shitty, run-down motel room blurs into the next, the tacky decoration of one mixing up with the outdated one of those before it. He wishes he could’ve stayed with Bobby, but there’s no way. He’s already endangered their friend by going there to begin with, no matter that he only stayed for an hour. So he’s back to holding his thumb out next to the highway and waiting for someone to stop who isn’t intimidated by his height.

Sam sighs and closes his eyes. The window of the truck is cold against his temple, the country music filtering tinnily through the bad speakers not comforting. Even the truck’s engine sounds wrong. The guy next to him breathes too loud and has to cough every five minutes, interrupting the silence between them with a rattling noise that sounds of too many cigarettes and lung cancer. The driver’s cab smells of stale smoke and sweat, the small pine-shaped air freshener not enough to cover the stink. At least this guy hasn’t started fondling him. Yet.

This all feels so wrong. He wants to go back, but he knows he can’t. Wants to sit in worn leather seats with springs protesting under his weight, wants to hear AC/DC play a lullaby for him, wants to hear the Impala purr like a satisfied fat cat, wants to feel her vibrations chasing up his spine as she eats up the miles, wants to smell leather and heated plastic and Dean’s cologne. Wants to feel the presence of his brother, know he’s there even when Sam has his eyes closed, hear him hum and sing silently and a bit off-key to whatever tape he fed to the radio.

But all this is history now. He can never go back, not since he fed his brother a cocktail of whiskey and sleeping pills he swiped from a pharmacy to sneak out of their motel room as soon as Dean was knocked out. By the time Dean woke up, Sam was already in the next state.

“We’re here, boy,” the trucker says and Sam startles. He must’ve dozed off. Outside, storefronts rush by, neon lit against the black backdrop of the night sky.

“Welcome to Riverton,” chuckles Billy with his rough voice. Or was Billy the one before? Sam can’t remember. It’s not like it’s important anyway. In the beginning he still tried to make conversation, talk a bit with the Billys and Johnnys and Jimmys that were nice enough to pick up the young hitchhiker holding out his thumb next to the highway or gas station. By now the faces have started blurring together like the motel rooms, a fucked up slide show of him running from the only home he ever knew. From the only person he’s ever loved.

BillyJohnJimmy turns the truck onto a gas station and brings it to a halt next to a pump. Sam jumps out and throws his duffel over his shoulder, walking around the truck to shake hands with the truck driver and say goodbye. The guy offers him a grin, showing off his yellow teeth.

“Thanks,” Sam says and smiles weakly. The guy nods and claps Sam’s shoulder.

“No problem, boy. Take care.”

Sam walks off, looking for the next run-down motel. The night is cold, and when he tips his head back, he can see a couple stars. He wonders where to go next, wraps his arms around himself. Somewhere warm would be nice.

*

Dean knows he should’ve killed the fucking dog as soon as the mutt starts barking. Great. He ducks behind one of the rusty cars on the scrap yard as soon as the porch door bangs open, Bobby’s silhouette black against the light pouring out into the night.

“Rumsfeld,” he barks, and the mutt falls silent with a last bark of his own. Bobby takes a step forward, Dean can see his head turning as he’s looking for him, but most of the scrap yard is painted in darkness, the ruins of salvaged cars throwing too many shadows, no light being offered by moon or stars. Dean recognizes the shape of the sawed-off in Bobby’s hands immediately. Smart man.

“Come on out, Dean. I know you’re here.”

Dean stays where he is, unmoving, gun a reassuring weight in his hands. He watches Bobby on his porch. From inside, the sound of the running TV is drifting out, disturbing the silence of the night. There’s studio applause, muffled. Rumsfeld grunts and huffs, chain clinking as he paces.

Dean could easily shoot Bobby from here. He already has him in his sights. One bullet, and the grumpy hunter would be history. His finger twitches.

“He’s long gone, Dean,” Bobby calls into the darkness where Dean is hiding. “I dunno where he went, but even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell ya.”

There’s a side mirror resting on the passenger seat inside the car Dean is crouching behind. He reaches through the open window and grabs it, throws it to the other side of the yard, where it bounces off a car and lands in the gravel. Rumsfeld starts barking again, pulling on his chain in an attempt to reach the origin of the noise. Bobby curses and calls the mutt’s name, but he won’t stop barking. While they’re both distracted, Dean moves. Hidden in the shadows of another car, around it, to the side of the porch and up. Bobby is still squinting at the dark scrap yard, doesn’t hear Dean coming over Rumfeld’s barking and his own mumbled curses.

When he finally notices, it’s too late. Dean can see Bobby’s shoulders tensing, his head turning halfway, his eyes widening, barrels of the sawed-off raising to aim at Dean’s chest. Dean is faster, brings the gun down hard on Bobby’s temple, and he collapses into a heap of loose limbs, sawed-off clattering to the ground. Dean stands over him, chest heaving. He doesn’t like to do this, but Bobby’s a stubborn old bastard, and there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for Sammy.

Sammy, who’s gone, lost, who ran away. Sammy, Sammy, Sammy, his Sammy. His little brother Sammy. Sammy is _his_ , Dean’s, since the day their mom came back from the hospital and put him into Dean’s arms, tiny and pink, wrapped into a white blanket. Dean knew even then that Sammy was his, would always be. He’d protect him, keep him safe. And he did.

Until now.

He fucked up, but he can fix it, he’s sure. He’ll find Sammy soon enough, and nobody, not even Bobby, will stand in his way.

Dean kicks the sawed-off away, watches it being swallowed by the shadows outside of the ring of light around them. Rumsfeld is still barking.

“Shut up!” he yells, but the mutt won’t. Dean heaves a sigh, looks at Bobby’s limp form. There’s blood running from his temple into the graying hair, turning it dark and sticky. He doesn’t look like he’s gonna come to soon. Dean clicks his tongue and kicks Bobby’s foot to make sure. There’s no reaction.

He can’t help the grin twisting the corners of his mouth, showing off his teeth.

“I told you to shut the fuck up,” he tells Rumsfeld as he climbs from the porch, bends over to pick up a discarded crowbar. The gravel crunches under his feet as he walks towards the barking mutt. “But if you don’t wanna listen…”

*

It started innocently enough. Looking back now, Sam thinks of course he should’ve seen it sooner, but hindsight and all that.

But then again, Dean has always been very protective of him, threatening to beat up Sam’s bullies and so on, starting fights with the men in the dives they went to to hustle some pool because ‘they looked at Sam wrong’. To Sam, it was just the way it was. Of course he knew it wasn’t normal, but when have the Winchesters ever been _normal_ in any sense of the word. And if you know what’s out there, what kind of things truly lurk in the shadows and hide beneath beds, then it is a very reasonable decision to keep an eye on your family, right?

But Dean went above and beyond that.

When Sam came home and told Dean of a girl he found cute the first time, Dean told him to not even try, since they’d leave soon enough anyway and there was no point in trying to score. Back then, Sam had listened. Because he thought it’s Dean, and Dean is always right. He hadn’t questioned Dean’s advice, even though Dean went through a string of relationships in every town they stayed in longer than a day. They left the town three weeks later, without Sam getting his first kiss, even though Alice Brown had sent very obvious signals.

By the time Sam was sixteen, he’d had his first kiss, but nothing that went further. No clumsy fumbling under the bleachers, no long make-out sessions in the janitor’s closet. It was like he’d been cursed, because every time he’d shown an interest in one girl or another, sooner or later they’d turn their backs on him. They’d ignore him completely, even going as far as leaving the room as soon as Sam came in, all but running past him in the hallways. It was frustrating, to say the least, but Dean teased him often enough about girls not wanting some scrawny, nerdy kid, so he could kinda understand it.

It was only later that he found out what was really going on.

Unsurprisingly, high school girls are easily scared off when the big brother of their crush shows up on their doorstep and tells them in great detail what he’s going to do to them if they ever so much as talk to his little brother again.

*

Sam’s phone rings when he’s in Brigham City, Utah. It’s a new phone, he’s thrown the others away, and only Bobby has his number for emergencies. As expected, the number on the display is Bobby’s and he doesn’t even hesitate before he picks up.

“Yes?” he asks and throws a t-shirt into his duffel, already packing because he knows Bobby wouldn’t call him unless it’s important. Most likely, he wants to warn him about Dean coming after him. He said he’d keep taps on him.

“Sammy.”

Sam freezes. The voice is whiskey-smooth, deep, familiar like no other. It trickles like water from the speaker, down his neck, the curve of his spine, making the fine hairs on his skin stand up in its wake. It’s the voice Sam will never forget, the voice he’ll always connect to the only home he’s ever had, no matter how far he runs.

“Dean.” The word is a choked whisper of hurt and fear. And maybe something else. Maybe.

Dean picks up on it immediately, and his voice changes from relieved to worried, almost frantic. As if he doesn’t know why Sam is running. As if he doesn’t know Sam is running from _him_.

“Sammy, are you okay? Where are you?”

Sam shakes his head to clear it. The plastic case of the phone protest beneath his squeezing fingers.

“What did you do to Bobby, Dean!”

“Nothin’!” Dean sounds almost offended, but now that Sam knows what happened, what Dean did—

“I don’t believe you, Dean! Is he still alive?” Having to ask makes Sam want to throw up. The thought Dean could’ve killed or even hurt Bobby feels like a knife to the gut. But now, now that he _knows_ , there is nothing he wouldn’t put past Dean.

There’s a deep sigh on the other end of the line. It sounds irritated.

“He’s just sleeping,” Dean assures and Sam takes a deep breath, feels at least some of the tenseness let go of his shoulders, but his heart is still hammering away in his chest. His voice is shaky when he says, “leave him alone, Dean. He knows nothing. I didn’t tell him anything.”

Dean chuckles. It makes Sam shudder, his stomach twist into knots. How could he ever have thought he knew his brother when he had no idea of this darkness beneath the pretty surface, hidden behind the cocky smile and the swagger, the full lips and emerald eyes.

“Oh, trust me, he knows. Maybe not where you are, but he knows everything else. Or at least he put two and two together, Sammy,” Dean tells him. “And if I just go now and do nothing, I’ll have most of the hunter community on my ass by tomorrow.”

Sam’s knees turn to jelly and he sinks onto the bed, slumps forward, elbows propped up on his knees, heel of his free hand rubbing against his forehead.

“Please,” he begs, voice breaking. There’s silence on the other end.

“Please, Dean,” more frantic now. “Don’t hurt him, okay. I—I’ll tell you where I am, okay? You can come here, pick me up and then we’ll go somewhere where they won’t find us, alright? Just. Leave Bobby alone. He knows nothing, I promise. Take the phone with you and come here, I won’t run anymore.”

Finally, “promise?”

Sam swallows, nods even though Dean can’t see him.

“Yeah, Dean, I promise.”

Another silence, then, “okay Sammy, stay where you are and wait for me.”

“Yeah, Dean, I’ll do that.”

Sam stares for half an hour at the ugly 70’s wallpaper of his motel room before he calls Rufus.

*

The girl Sam asked out for the school dance was murdered.

To his surprise she’d said yes, and Sam had spent the rest of the week until Dad and Dean came back from a hunt nervously pacing their rental and looking up where he could rent a suit. When Dean came finally back, a bit beaten up and tired but not seriously injured, Sam couldn’t hold in the news and told him right away. He hadn’t seen the expression on his brother’s face, because he was busy redressing a shallow cut on Dean’s back, but when Dean turned around and gave him a companionable clap on the shoulder and said, “look at that, little Sammy actually managed to get a date for prom,” he hadn’t been able to stop smiling.

Three days later, the girl, Jane Swanepole, was murdered on her way home from the library. Someone dragged her into an alley and cut her throat, clean and simple. Quick.

Sam had been so shocked he didn’t go to school for the rest of the week, staying locked up in his room until Dad decided they’d been here long enough and were needed elsewhere. He didn’t even let Sam attend the funeral.

*

“Rufus, is he alright?”

Sam doesn’t even wait for the greeting before he hurls his question at the other hunter. He’d been pacing his room for the last few hours, alternating between staring at the wallpaper and calling Bobby’s house, but there hadn’t been an answer. He’d called Rufus first to ask him to check on Bobby, and gladly, the other hunter had been in the region, just two hours away.

“Sam,” Rufus says, and the tone of his voice tells Sam everything he needs to know. His legs give out and he sinks to the ground, the pain shooting through his knees so distant he doesn’t really notice it.

“How did you know,” Rufus demands to know, his voice sharp. He’s lost a friend tonight, Sam reminds himself. Rufus will take good care of Bobby now. Give him a proper hunter’s funeral. Sam would do it himself, but he can’t go back now.

“Had a hunch,” Sam says and swallows. His voice is shaking and he clears his throat, rubs his eyes. His fingers come back wet. “He. He told me there was a hunt or something. He didn’t know what. But guess the thing found him first.”

There’s a long silence, then a grunt of acknowledgment. Sam doesn’t think Rufus believes him.

“I—I gotta go, Rufus. I, um. Yeah.”

“Alright, Sam,” Rufus says, and his voice is cold, sharp. Sam swallows and flips the phone shut. He has roughly ten hours before Dean will get here. Time to vanish again.

*

Sam doesn’t know what exactly had tipped Dad off, but shortly before Sam graduated, Dean and Dad started fighting a lot. Before, they never did. It was Sam who constantly butted heads with Dad, but something must have happened, because suddenly they were constantly at each other’s throat. They didn’t yell like Sam and Dad did when they fought, but Sam could still see it, the straight lines of their squared shoulders, the angry glances they shot each other. He could feel the tension thick in the room whenever they were both in it. Sam mostly kept to himself at that time, hiding away in his and Dean’s room when the other two were having their silent battles in the living room. He actually thought it was good that Dean finally started to stand up for himself and stopped taking Dad’s shit.

But that, of course, was before he knew why they were fighting, before he knew that Dad had noticed something wasn’t right with his oldest son, that there were things that shouldn’t be, too many coincidences and accidents surrounding Dean Winchester.

Two months before Sam was supposed to graduate, Dean and Dad went on a hunt.

Only Dean came back.

*

Sam hitches a ride with a group of frat boys on their way to Vegas. Most of them are already drunk, and the designated driver broods behind the steering wheel while his friends offer Sam beer and other liquor. They are easily distracted and Sam has no problem steering the conversation away from him as soon as they start asking too many questions. The sober driver, of course, notices, but Sam flashes him his most innocent smile in the rearview mirror and hopes it will throw him off.

He has never liked Vegas, even though Dean seemed to enjoy their stay once a year in the infamous Sin City. To Sam, it’s too loud, too flashy, too crowded, too everything with its blinking signs and the music blasting from speakers attached to the fronts of every casino and hotel down the strip. Dean knows how much Sam hates it here, so hopefully he won’t even think about looking for Sam in Vegas. And if that means Sam has to stay there for the rest of his life, he’ll gladly do so as long as Dean doesn’t find him.

*

There was a guy in one of the bars they hustled pool in who grabbed Sam’s ass. Dean broke his hand and started a brawl. There was a waitress at a diner who flirted with Sam. The next time they were there she had a black eye and refused to serve their table. There was a clerk at a motel who checked out Sam’s ass. She was shaking the next day when Sam gave the keys to their room back. There was a coroner they interviewed, who asked Sam out for coffee. She didn’t show up and wasn’t at work the next day either.

Sam considers himself smart. He’d always had good grades in school and was generally considered a nerd, and when he thinks about it now, he sees that it’s all been obvious. The signs were _right there_ , but Sam refused to see them. Dean clenching his jaw when someone flirted with Sam, the way the vein in his neck began to pulse when someone looked at Sam appreciatively, the twitch of an eyelid when the waitress leaned in a bit too much when she put Sam’s food down in front of him, the white knuckles of Dean’s clenched hands when someone smiled too brightly at Sam.

It was all there, from the very beginning, and Sam didn’t see it.

Not until after. After Dad died. After they went on hunting, both as high school dropouts, because Sam couldn’t finish school when one of those bastards had gotten to their father, robbing them finally of both their parents. Sam went on living, oblivious to the way Dean sometimes looked at him and glared at everybody who showed the slightest interest in his little brother. For years, Sam didn’t see it, until there was Jess in Palo Alto.

Jessica Moore. She was beautiful. Blond, a wonderful smile, funny, smart. She went to Stanford, and Sam and Dean met her by chance when a vengeful spirit killed her roommate. Jessica was everything Sam was looking for in a girl, and from the moment he met her, he could picture a normal life, a house, a white picket fence, two children, a dog, a boring nine-to-five job and coming home to a family in the evening.

He told Dean. Dean laughed.

“And what are you going to tell her, Sammy? You gonna tell you you had a full ride to Stanford but dropped out of school because your dad was killed by a werewolf?”

“I don’t care. I’ll tell her something. Maybe even the truth,” Sam had said, and Dean had shut up. He hadn’t seen the darkness in his brother’s eyes. Was too caught up in picturing his perfect life with Jessica Moore.

He should’ve just kept his mouth shut.

Jess was killed by the spirit before Sam could ask her out on a date. At least, that’s what Dean said.

“The thing got her, man. ‘m sorry.”

Sam believed him. Like always. Because Dean’s word was law, because Dean always spoke the truth, because Dean was everything Sam had left, because Dean would never leave him like Mom or Dad or Jess, because Dean would always be Sam’s home.

Until Sam found the newspaper clippings. The trophies telling of murder, a road map of death that followed in Dean’s wake.

*

Sam gets a job as a barkeeper-slash-bouncer at some seedy bar off the strip in Vegas. On his second day, one of the waitresses, Kathy, asks him out for a drink but he tells her he’s gay. Kathy takes it in stride, wants to set him up with one of her friends soon after, but Sam makes excuses, tells her of the abusive relationship he just got out of. He doesn’t say Dean’s name, but the story he makes up is so close to the truth that he wants to throw up. Kathy is all big, teary eyes and comforting smiles. He feels bad for lying to her, but if Dean should find him, Sam’s not presenting him with another suitable victim.

Sam doesn’t have a type, per se, but if he were anybody but Sam Winchester, he would’ve said yes. Kathy is pretty, with a mop of curly chestnut hair and big brown eyes. She’s funny and sweet, with a broad smile that helps with the tips she gets.

But sometimes, when she laughs or throws a glance over her should and winks at Sam, he can see Jess before him, doing the same, and it makes him taste bile on his tongue.

*

Dean didn’t deny it when Sam confronted him. He didn’t show remorse.

Instead, Dean got angry.

“You went through my stuff?” he demanded to know, and in that moment Sam’s world crumbled. He couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe properly. There were bands of iron wrapped around his ribcage, pressing down and making him gasp. His whole body shook, his hands were slick with cold sweat and the newspaper clippings drifted lazily to the ground, black and white photos of covered bodies at the crime scene drawing in Sam’s gaze.

He couldn’t look at Dean, at the dark, furious eyes, burning with a fire he’d never seen before. This was not the Dean he knew. This was someone else, someone twisted and dangerous.

Dean grabbed him by the front of his shirt, shook him, yelled, but Sam couldn’t understand the words. He could feel Dean’s hot breath on his face, Dean’s fingertips digging into his shoulder.

“I did it for you, Sam!”

His eyes stung.

“I had to protect you.”

His lungs burned.

“You left me no choice!”

His throat was dry.

“If you want to blame someone, blame yourself! _You_ made me do it!”

Dean caught him when Sam’s legs gave out, cradled him against his chest. Like all those times before, when Sam scraped his knee, when he fell off a tree and broke his arm, when he was injured on his first hunt. Dean rocked him back and forth, whispered sweet nothings into Sam’s ear, kissed his forehead and hair, his hand rubbing soothing circles on Sam’s back.

It wasn’t comforting. Not like it used to be.

“I did it for you, Sam,” Dean whispered and Sam sobbed, buried his face in Dean’s shirt. He didn’t smell like before—familiar, comforting, safe. Dean smelled of blood and decay, and Sam had to swallow against the bile at the back of his throat.

“Don’t leave me, Sam.”

Sam shook his head and let Dean tilt his head back, didn’t shake off the hand caressing his jaw, thumb following the line of his cheekbone. He didn’t turn his head away when Dean leaned down and kissed him, breath hot, lips chapped, tongue wet and demanding when it pushed between Sam’s lip for a taste. Dean made a sound, breathless and needy, and pulled Sam closer, his arms like a vice around Sam’s back.

He let it all happen. Listened to Dean begging him to stay between kisses.

“Yes, Dean, I’ll stay. No, I won’t leave you.”

He left three days later, when Dean was knocked out on the motel bed.

*

It takes Dean six months to find him.

Deep down, Sam knew that this would eventually happen, he’d just hoped it would take him longer. But after all, Dean has a lot of fake ID’s and badges at his disposal, and he’s the best hunter Sam knows, so it was only a matter of time.

Half a year.

That’s how long Sam had.

Dean is waiting for him in Sam’s rental, a dump not far away from the bar he works in. Sam hasn’t bought any furniture yet, because he never expected to stay long enough for it to matter. As it turns out, he was right, so there’s only a mattress on the floor, next to it Sam’s open duffel and a cardboard box with the remains of dinner resting on top.

Dean is standing in front of the window, blocking the view on the brick wall of the next house. His arms are folded over his chest and he leans back casually against the window, looking Sam up and down calmly.

Sam takes the last step into the apartment and closes the door behind him. His gun is where it’s always been, tucked safely away in his waistband at the small of his back. But he knows he won’t use it. Same goes for the knife in his sock. He knows he will use neither, and so does Dean, because even with all the terrible things Dean has done, even with all the people he’s murdered, Sam could never hurt Dean, much less pull the trigger. Even if Dean was on his way to rid the Earth of humanity, Sam’s hands would be bound, and he would watch, hopelessly, as Dean stains his hands with red and takes lives.

“You lied to me,” is the first thing Dean says and Sam shrugs, takes off his jacket. He’s not scared, but eerily calm. He has expected this, knew this day would come. Sam looks up, takes a good look at Dean. There are dark bruises under his eyes from lack of sleep, his clothes are rumpled and dirty, his jaw covered in a scruffy beard, his hair unwashed and lacking the gel he used to style it with.

“So did you,” Sam says and throws his jacket onto his duffel. The apartment is small, and even from where he’s standing at the door, Sam can smell the whiskey on Dean.

“I had no other choice, I told you, Sam,” Dean says, matter-of-factly, and Sam feels the anger bubbling in his chest, scathing words fighting their way up his throat. But he swallows them down, grinds his teeth.

“You promised,” he reminds Dean, and now Dean shrugs.

“So did you.”

Silence follows. The brothers look at each other. Dean has lost weight. But so has Sam. He hasn’t slept well since he left, and neither has Dean. And where Sam’s diet consisted of old takeout, Dean’s must’ve been mostly whiskey and maybe a greasy burger here or there. They both look like shit, worn and tired, older than they really are.

And that’s how it is, isn’t it?

That’s who they are, broken and fucked up, barely able to function without the other. There hasn’t been a minute since Sam left in which he hasn’t thought of Dean, in which he hasn’t missed his brother with every fiber of his being, despite the things Dean has done. He constantly forgets to eat, there’s not a night since he left in which he’s slept more than four hours, and at work he keeps on ‘spacing out’, how Kathy has come to call it, staring off into the distance and thinking, about Dean, about the blood on both their hands, the kiss, how it had felt.

How _good_ it had felt. How back then, on the dirty motel room floor, with Dean above him, everything had slipped into place and clicked.

This was inevitable, wasn’t it?

Dean was always there for him, from the second he was born, until the moment he takes his last breath, and even after, Dean will be there for Sam. He has given Sam his everything, it’s only natural that Sam gives him his everything now, too. Right?

There’s nobody who understands Sam the way Dean does. Jess, wonderful as she was, wouldn’t have understood. Even if Sam would’ve told her of the hunting life, it wouldn’t have been enough. One must have lived it to understand. The fear, the rush, this moment when the brain shuts off and the body takes over, when you pull a trigger or plunge a dagger into something’s gut. Jess has never smelled burning or rotten flesh, hasn’t felt the stickywarmslick feel of blood on her hands, hasn’t felt claws and teeth tearing into skin. She hasn’t been woken up by her dad at the crack of dawn for a five mile run and hand-to-hand training after. She hasn’t woken up with a crick in her neck from sleeping in the back of the Impala with her brother because she was out of cash. She never cracked a lock and broke into someone’s home to look for clues. She’s never dug up a grave, palms burning and calloused from the shovel, sweat and earth mixing, caking hands and the back of her neck.

She never _knew_.

But Dean does.

“This is no life for you, Sam,” Dean tells him and takes a hesitant step towards him. His face is full of worry, his eyebrows drawn together. Sam snorts.

“I mean, look at you, Sam! You look like shit!” Dean goes on and takes another step. His hand twitches, as if he wants to reach out and touch but thinks better of it in the last moment. He gestures at the mattress with its rumpled blanket instead. “Look at this place! It’s worse than the motels we’ve stayed in, I counted ten cockroaches while I waited for you, and I haven’t been here that long!”

He’s only two steps away now. It would be so easy to cross the distance and press against Dean’s chest, let himself be enveloped by Dean’s arms and smell, sink into his warmth.

Return home.

Dean was the one who carried him out of the fire, all those years ago. Dean was the one who put band-aids on Sam’s knees and kissed them better, who stitched his cuts, later, and patched him up after hunts. He was the one who climbed into Sam’s bed and comforted him after a nightmare, who told him stories to distract him from the monster under his bed and the one lurking in his closet. He was the one who made soup when Sam was sick, and read him from his favorite book.

Dean swallows. Sam follows the movement of his Adam’s apple with his eyes, looks up, for a moment tracing the bow of Dean’s lips, watches the tip of his tongue swiping over them to wet them.

“I just wanna make sure you’re okay, Sam,” Dean says, and his body is vibrating with tension. He looks like he wants to take the last step, cross the distance between them and never let go again.

“You gotta be okay, Sam.” It’s said so quietly, Sam almost doesn’t hear it.

Like this, it’s so easy to forget all the blood on Dean’s hands. The newspaper clippings at the bottom of his duffel bag.

All those people showing an interest in Sam. It wouldn’t have worked out, would it? There’s no picket fence in Sam’s future, no children, no dogs, no nine-to-five job. Because every time he’d open the newspaper, he’d look for strange, unexplainable deaths, he’d see the signs of a haunting, find the traces of a vampire pack taking out the locals. And he wouldn’t be able to turn the other way and go on living like nothing happened.

You don’t leave this life behind.

You don’t leave your brother behind.

Not when he’s everything you’ve ever had, the only person who’s ever truly known and loved you. There’s nothing else but Dean.

No future, presence or past but Dean.

Sam has stopped running. He doesn’t know when it happened, maybe already when he let Dean kiss him, and Sam just didn’t realize.

It doesn’t matter anymore, because Dean is here, like he always is.

Sam raises his hand, and Dean takes the last step.

Dean’s face is full of surprised awe and his hands are actually shaking when he reaches out for Sam, curls one hand around Sam’s neck and lets the other rest on Sam’s cheek, thumb tracing patterns over Sam’s skin. Sam feels like his heart is trying to burst out of his ribcage, and he takes a step towards Dean himself, even though there is almost no space left, but he has to get closer, has to feel his brother against him.

Has to get home.

Dean’s chest is firm against his own, and his skin is so hot it’s burning Sam’s even through two layers of clothing. One of Dean’s arms curls around his middle, hand resting on the small of Sam’s back, pulling him in, as if he wants Sam to climb inside him, into the cradle of his ribcage, so he can never leave again, safely tucked away beneath Dean’s heart.

And Sam will never leave again. Because he’s right where he’s supposed to be. Dean has protected him from everything, from the fire, the bullies, the heartbreak, from getting used and discarded.

Dean’s lips are urgent, demanding, pressing against Sam’s own relentlessly, tongue pushing between them. Sam gladly opens up for his brother, lets him take whatever he wants, whatever he needs. Their breath mingles hot between them, brushes Sam’s cheek in a soft caress, and Dean groans, nips at Sam’s lips. His hands, his bloody, bloody hands are everywhere on Sam’s body, pushing beneath his shirt and waistband, caressing, stroking, squeezing, pulling, pinching, kneading, every inch of his body. Dean’s palms are hot like brands, and Dean claims him with every touch, leaves his mark, and Sam lets him, lets him letshim, opens up and welcomes it.

He can feel Dean’s cock, hard and hot, through the denim layers of their jeans, and he thrusts his hips, sighs when he hears Dean’s groan, lets himself be pushed towards the mattress and down on top of it. Dean follows quickly, climbs on top of him, between Sam’s spread legs, covers his neck in bruises, sucks his marks into Sam’s skin. Arching his back, Sam offers himself to his brother, begs to be taken, and Dean obliges, pulls on Sam’s clothes until seams give and rip open.

Sam’s skin is paler than it used to, but Dean doesn’t care. He takes a long look at his brother, lets his hand glide over Sam’s torso, traces the outline of ribs and his hipbones, follows the line of a silvery-white scar here and there. They both know where these scars are from, which monster left them there, when, where.

Nobody else would understand.

Here the claw marks of a werewolf beneath Sam’s ribs, four parallel long scars, another beginning at this right shoulder, running along under his collar bone to his chest where a Skinwalker with a knife got him, there, where neck joins shoulder, the crescent teeth marks of a vampire bite. A road map of death on Sam’s skin.

Dean traces the marks of their life with his tongue, slides his hands up and down Sam’s sides and makes Sam shudder and groan, his eyes roll back into his head and his toes curl. His skin is too sensitive, every touch of Dean’s calloused skin making sparks chase up his spine and explode behind his eye lids. He has to muffle a scream by biting into the heel of his hand when Dean grinds his hips down, makes their cocks rub against each other through the fabric of their pants. It’s overwhelming, but still not enough. He needs everything, needs to take everything, needs to give everything.

Dean fumbles a bit when he tries to get Sam’s pants open, and Sam gets frustrated, bats his hands away to do it himself. He can’t get rid of the clothes still separating him from Dean fast enough. Needs to be even closer, now. Needs to feel scorching hot skin against his own. Dean knows what Sam needs, he always does, and he leans back and pulls off his shirt so fast the seams pop and protest, but neither of them cares. Both of their pants and boxers are discarded and quickly forgotten, because then Dean is on top of him again, their cocks rubbing against each other, Dean grinding down against Sam and Sam thrusting up in the same rhythm.

He’s getting close. Dean’s hands on him, his lips everywhere, sucking, kissing, tongue licking and tracing, teeth nipping and biting, leaving pink, crescent marks.

Sam needs more, and Dean knows, always knows.

“Lube,” Dean grinds out, his voice breathless and hoarse, and Sam gestures towards his duffel.

“Massage oil,” he responds with a voice he barely recognizes as his own with all the need it carries. The massage oil was a present from Kathy, who told him to find a sweet guy who’d help him get rid of all the tenseness in his shoulders. Sam doesn’t think she’d this in mind when she handed it to him, wink or not.

Dean’s movements are jerky and quick as he scrambles off Sam and towards the duffel, pulls it closer and digs through it, throwing clothes every which way until he has the small plastic tube in his hands. Sam uses the time to take a look at his brother, the muscles shifting beneath his skin, his large hands with the thick fingers, the curve of his spine, the dimples right above his perfectly rounded ass. He thinks about his legs thrown over those broad shoulders, of his heels digging into the small of Dean’s back, and shudders pleasantly, can’t stop the moan from escaping his lips. Dean twitches and nearly drops the lube, and in an instant he’s right there again, pushing Sam’s legs up to his chest to slip slick fingers between his asscheeks.

When one of Dean’s fingers circles Sam’s hole he releases a breathless groan and bites his lip. It’s too much, too much toomuch. There’s already a wet spot of precome on his stomach, his thigh muscles are protesting with the effort of holding his legs up, and to every touch of Dean’s fingertips, Sam feels himself shudder and twitch. Dean is whispering sweet nothings, breathless and barely intelligible, while he stares at Sam’s ass, follows the movement of his finger with his eyes when he pushes inside Sam.

To Sam, it feels strange, being spread open like this, but he wants it, wants it wantsit more than anything else, needs more, and he doesn’t hear himself begging for Dean to c’mon, more, please, Dean, faster.

Dean hushes him, his hand twitching where it holds Sam’s right leg up. The rest of his composure is crumbling, Sam can see it in the way he’s shaking, how his chest is heaving with his breaths, how his eyes are wide and unblinking, as if he doesn’t want to risk missing one second.

Dean’s finger pushes in and out of Sam, and he speeds up the rhythm a bit before pushing in a second finger, scissoring them. Sam throws his head back, closes his eyes and bites his bottom lip, tells himself to relax as Dean spreads him open with tender care.

It feels like hours until Dean finally withdraws his fingers and lines himself up. Sam doesn’t even have the time to mourn the loss of something inside him before Dean pushes his cock in. He knows they have no condoms, but he doesn’t care. He’ll take everything Dean can give him, wants to feel him inside himself without the latex barrier.

Dean lets out a drawn-out groan when he’s fully inside Sam, and Sam can see him shaking with the amount of work it takes him to hold back and let Sam adjust to the stretch. It doesn’t hurt, but it doesn’t feel too good either, more strange than anything, being stretched this wide open. But he knows it will feel better soon, because there’s already warmth pooling in his stomach from the realization alone that Dean is inside him. He knows that Dean will take him to heights he’s never reached before.

Dean will break him, twist him and put him back together, and Sam welcomes it with open arms.

He wraps his legs around Dean’s middle, reaches out for one of Dean’s hands where it’s clutching the sheets next to his face. He tugs on Dean’s wrist until he lets go and then draws Dean’s hand to his face, kisses his fingertips, the scarred knuckles, the weapon-calloused palm while Dean watches him with wide, glassy eyes. He licks over the pad of Dean’s index finger and closes his lips around it, thinks he can taste the blood, coppery warm, mixed with Dean’s sweat and he licks it up greedily, sucks half of Dean’s finger into his mouth and swirls his tongue around it.

Dean groans and involuntarily thrusts his hips, once, his eyes on Sam’s face, unblinking, unwilling to miss a single moment. Sam sighs when he feels Dean move inside him, lets the finger slip out of his mouth, now shiny and sweat-slick, and Dean tangles his hand in Sam’s hair, leans down to kiss him. It’s hungry, teeth sharp as they pull Sam’s bottom lip into Dean’s mouth. He doesn’t care, takes what is given and offers in kind, pushes his tongue into Dean’s mouth, lets it slide over his and curls it against the back of Dean’s teeth.

Dean’s hips have started moving in shallow, short thrusts, and Sam is getting used to the feeling, demands more, draws Dean in with a hand on his shoulder and tightens his legs around his middle, eager and oh so willing. Dean bites Sam’s neck, muffles another groan as he speeds up, pushes deeper, faster, harder, and Sam keens, presses his head into the pillow until the tendons on his neck protest.

“You’re mine, Sam,” Dean says and bites Sam’s earlobe until it stings, and Sam nods, says _yesyesyes_ until his voice cracks, and Dean goes on, moves his hips, holds Sam’s in an iron grip, fingertips digging deep as he pulls Sam in with every thrust.

“Did it all for you, Sam. Had to.”

“Yes, Dean, I know, Dean, please—“

“You’re mine, always mine, always, always, always.”

Dean tangles one hand in Sam’s hair, pulls his head up and mashes their lips together in something that isn’t quite a kiss, more open mouths pressed against each other while they breath in each other’s air, slick lips sliding against another.

“Say it!” Dean demands, bites Sam’s bottom lip, thrusts his hips forward until Sam thinks he’s going to break apart.

“Yours, Dean, only yours,” he says, almost begs and Dean rewards him by taking Sam’s cock in hand, jerking it to the sharp, quick rhythm of his thrusts until Sam’s back arches off the bed, his hands tearing on the sheets, his toes curl. There’s an explosion of stars in front of his eyes, and all he can see is Dean, Dean Deandeandean, always, always, always and forever Dean.

Dean on top of him, inside him, around him, always there.

Sam comes with a choked scream, spilling over Dean’s hand, his body clenching around Dean, who jerks him through the aftershocks, doesn’t stop thrusting inside Sam until he goes limp, his eyelids heavy, riding the afterglow.

Dean follows soon after with a garbled sound on his lips that sounds suspiciously like Sam’s name. He collapses on top of Sam, sticky, heavy and sweaty, but Sam doesn’t care, waits until Dean has caught his breath and rolls off him.

He can feel slickness between his asscheeks, staining the sheets beneath him, but he doesn’t care.

Because Dean is here, next to him, one arm thrown over Sam’s hips, one leg tangled with Sam’s. He’s here. He always will be.

“You’re mine,” Dean mumbles before he falls asleep, eyes drooping, body finally completely relaxed.

“I’m yours,” Sam says, and thinks he catches Dean smile before they both drift off.

*

Sam wakes a couple hours later. It’s dark, but Vegas is wide awake, the sound of tourists and cars drifting in through the cracked open window. Dean is next to him, fast asleep, face relaxed. He looks younger than he is, almost innocent. One of his hands rests on Sam’s chest, fingers spread wide as if he wants to feel Sam’s heartbeat against his palm.

Sam knows he could leave now, could slip out of the bed and get dressed, sneak from the room without Dean waking up. He could take the next Greyhound bus and let it take him wherever.

He could.

He couldn’t.

Dean’s hand is resting on his chest, his brother is next to him, the sound of his even breathing comforting, familiar, home.

Dean’s hand is resting on his chest, Dean’s bloody, bloody hand.

Sam turns his head, looks at Dean’s face, the fan of his eyelashes, the faded freckles, his jawline, covered in stubble, his forehead, lacking the creases of tension, his shoulders, broad and relaxed, no trace of the weight this twisted Atlas carries.

Sam could leave.

He won’t.


End file.
